“I used to get out here on business occasionally, and I liked it, so I was thinking of getting a place here.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’m a lawyer-or rather, I used to be. Now I’m an investor.” He thought that should send the right message. “What about you?”
“I’m an actress; I came out here a few months ago from Chicago.”
“Storming Hollywood?”
“Sort of. What sort of place are you looking for, Jack?”
“Haven’t decided yet. I heard that Marina Del Rey was nice, and I like boats.”
“Then why don’t you buy a boat and live on that?”
“It’s a thought. Do you live on a boat?”
“For the moment. It belongs to a friend.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“My friend doesn’t like me to have guests aboard.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Maybe not; help me out.”
“You understand.”
“Well, yes.”
Their cheeseburgers arrived, and they were quiet for a while as they ate.
Stone wasn’t sure where to go with this. Was Barbara Tierney the girl who had been driving Arrington’s car? Or was she just a girl living on a friend’s boat?
Barbara finished her cheeseburger and drank the last of her beer. “My friend’s out of town,” she said.
26
Stone followed Barbara Tierney down the ramp and out the pontoons toPaloma. He found himself aboard a very handsomely furnished motor yacht, quite new, he thought, and judging from the instrument panel on the bridge, very well equipped. “Who owns her?” he asked.
“My friend.”
“And who is he?”
“He doesn’t like his name bandied about,” she replied coolly. “He’s married.”
“Oh. Then I feel even fewer scruples about him.”
“Look,” she said, “I’d offer you a drink, but I feel very uncomfortable having you on the boat. My friend comes and goes at odd hours, and you never can tell…”
“Sure, I understand. How about if we had dinner ashore tonight?”
“I’d like that better,” she said. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Bel-Air Hotel,” he lied.
“I hear it’s very nice; why don’t we have dinner there?”
“Perfect; I’ll book a table. Do you have a car?”
She shook her head. “I use my friend’s when he’s in town, but…”
“Then I’ll pick you up here at seven.”
“Fine; I’ll meet you up by the chandlery, then.”
Stone offered his hand, and she took it, but then she pecked him lightly on the lips. “I’ll look forward to it,” she said.
“Me, too.” He hopped back onto the pontoon and walked toward his car. Once behind the wheel he called Rick Grant. “Hear anything on the prints yet?” he asked.
“I was just about to call you,” Grant said. “The prints belong to a Vincent Mancuso-three arrests, one in a bookmaking operation and two for loan-sharking, the last one eight years ago, no convictions. Those are typically mob crimes, even though he wasn’t in our organized crime index. I’ve started a file on him, though.”
“Have you got a description?”
“He’s forty-six years old, six-one, two-twenty-five, dark hair.”
“Sounds like a lot of guys.”
“I’ll bring you his mug shot the next time we meet.”
“Got a place of employment?”
“He owns-or did, this is a couple of years old-a delicatessen in Hollywood, call Vinnie’s. It’s on the Sunset Strip.” He gave Stone the address.
“Got it. I have another request.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you check on the registration of a boat for me?”
“Yeah, but it’ll probably take a day or two. We don’t have access to that database from here; I’ll have to go through the Coast Guard.”
“The boat’s name isPaloma, out of Avalon; she’s a motor vessel of about forty feet. I’d appreciate it if you’d ask them to put a rush on it. Right now, I don’t know if I’m chasing a wild goose.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“I guess I’ll change hotels, too, given that Vincent Mancuso is hanging around my room at Le Parc.”
“Where you going?”
“The Bel-Air, if they’ve got a room. I’ll register under Jack Smithwick.”
“You’re moving up in the world.”
“Well, at least I’m doing it with somebody else’s money!”
“That’s the best way. I’ll call you on the portable number.”
Stone hung up, started the car, and drove up to Sunset Boulevard. He found Vinnie’s Delicatessen, parked, went in, and looked around. It was still lunchtime, but the place wasn’t very busy, and he could see why. It seemed pretty greasy and not very inviting. He ordered a diet Coke to take away, and as he was paying, two hoodish-looking men walked in and, without slowing down, went behind the counter and through a door markedEMPLOYEES ONLY. Vinnie was probably running a book back there, Stone thought.
He left, tossed the soda into a wastebasket, got back into his car, and drove to his hotel. On the way, he called the Bel-Air and booked a small suite. Back at Le Parc he went to the front desk and laid a thousand dollars on the desk. “I want to extend for a few nights,” he said to the desk clerk.
“Of course, Mr. Smith,” the man said, making the money disappear.
“I’m going to be in and out, so tell the maid not to worry if my luggage isn’t there.”
“No problem. Oh, a Miss Betty Southard called.”
Stone went back to his suite and called Betty.
“Dinner tonight?” she asked.
“Can’t. How about tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
“Anything happen I should know about?”
“No. Vance didn’t come into the office. He sometimes stays home if he’s not shooting, so it’s been very quiet.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.” He hung up, packed his bags, and carried them down to the garage. Fifteen minutes later, he was checking into the Bel-Air.
“Welcome back, Mr. Barrington,” the woman behind the desk said.
“Ah, for personal reasons, I’d like to be known as Jack Smithwick while I’m here.”
“Of course, if you like.”
“Would you let the telephone operators know about that?”
“Surely.”
“And if anyone calls and asks for Barrington, deny all knowledge.”
“I understand,” she said. “Many of our guests travel incognito at one time or another.”
